January 24th
by jobincityslacka
Summary: John/Dean slash; no flames please. READ MY STORY -A NEW SORT OF ANIMAL- FIRST, because this fic is based on the paragraph about 1998. John's not there for Dean's birthday and angst ensues.


Pairing: John/Dean  
Rating: M  
Disclaimer: I don't own em' didn't create them. Just love writing the fiction.  
Warnings: Daddy!kink, m/m or slash  
Notes: This is an expansion of the fic A New Sort Of Animal based on the paragraph about 1998. Second Person (I'm weird, I know :D). Lyrics from FOB's w.a.m.s were used. Only 906 words. Comments welcome ^_^ Oh, Jan. 24 is Dean's b-day, btw.

January 24th

You wonder where your dad could possibly be, what has stopped him from calling you, why he's called every single day to check up on you—every day except for this one. You turn on your side and see your brother's troubled dreaming face; lidded eyes, scrunched eyebrows and a frown. You wish you could sleep like him, dream of the outcome, _live_ the outcome, instead of lying here wondering what it could possibly be. The room is dark and dry and the mattress is hard. You can't sleep. You can't dream.

You dial his number, but you get the answering machine. "This is John—I'm on a case right now but feel free to leave me a message and I'll get back to you as soon as possible." Yeah, right, he'll _get back to you_. It's a lie, and you know it. You still begin rambling after the beep anyway, hoping that he just might listen to this one. Hell, you've already called ten times—wasted effort.

"Hey dad, it's me, Dean. I'm just… I haven't talked to you today, so I'm just wondering if you're alright." You pause and exhale, wishing you had the courage to mention why today is so important. "Listen… uh, dad, I know you're right, having us separated like this, working different cases, but I don't know. Sammy misses you." You pause and contemplate whether or not that was a valid excuse. "I mean, I can handle it; of course I can handle it… I'll do what you raised me to do. Take care of Sammy. It's just…" You want to say _I miss you too_, but you're too scared to come off so weak. You're scared you'll only receive punishment. You're supposed to be the strong one. "Never mind. Just call when you have the time."

You haven't seen him in a year, and it's a draining business. Keeping track of all the credit cards and dealing with getting Sam to school and having to score women at the bar just to get release. You miss having so little responsibility, but more than anything you miss his body. The warmth. The tight muscles and hurt eyes. The heat. The groans. The moans. The whimpers and pleas. Having to remind each other to keep silent because Sam's right in the other room. You miss taking the pain away. You don't want to do this by yourself anymore. You don't want the responsibility. You don't want to lie in an empty bed.

"Dean," A gruff voice comes from behind you, and you leap out of bed and into a hug with the speaker: Dad. "Sorry, I was so busy with the case that I—" But the sentence ends as his voice breaks apart into sobs. It's a lie, he was really just ignoring you, and as he catches his breath and halts the tears before they take him over, he kisses the side of your head as an apology. You understand each other so well—he didn't even have to tell you it was a lie, yet you automatically knew. "It's over. I'm done with going off on my own cases. You're right—Sammy needs me," You wish he would've said _you need me_ but you know he'd never make you feel that important. "I promise I'll never leave like that again." You believe him; whether it's because his voice is convincing, because he showed up only an hour after you called, or purely because you _want_ to believe him is unsure to you. But you let him slide off your clothes as you make your way to the couch in the front room.

(_my_ _head's in heaven, my soles are in hell, let's meet in the purgatory of my hips and get well_)

You let him touch you. You let the sweat pour out of you. You let yourself get lost in the pleasure. You let him, you let yourself, and you let your body because you need to. He needs you to. You've been thinking about him non-stop for a year, and you don't know why. You don't know what it is about him that pushes you to your knees and makes your body ache with want. All you know is that you need him, that you need _this_.

(_hurry, hurry, you put my head in such a flurry, flurry, what makes you so special?_)

You push yourself down on him, letting him fill you up all the way, and the only incoherent phrase racing through your brain is _need this, need this right here_. You rush the action, joints locking and cracking, limbs thrashing, cock pulsing.

(_guild me build me it's your club so let me in, knowing how heartwarming it is inside your skin_)

Calloused hands lifting you by the small of your back, you feel him climax inside you and though he's obviously exhausted, he keeps thrusting until you're wheezing and you come against his chest. You rest your head against the crook of his neck and you want to tell him how much you missed this. Quick, choppy, straight-to-the-point sex. You missed him. And as your limbs grow weak, and your cock softens, you want to go again. You never want it to end. You never want a second to think again. You need this pleasure, right here. You need this and nothing else. The heat, the inferno, this and nothing else.


End file.
